


What's New, Buenos Aires?

by Kedavranox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Denial, Draco on a plane, Jealousy, M/M, Mile High Club, Public Sex, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedavranox/pseuds/Kedavranox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Harry are in the Portkey business! Hijinks ensue, Draco has a few panic attacks, Harry is seriously fit, and somehow they're stranded in Argentina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's New, Buenos Aires?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [digthewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digthewriter/gifts).



> Originally written for the H/D Tropes Exchange Fest. Original notes are at the end.

**What’s New, Buenos Aires?**

‘I really don't think it’ll work, Draco.’ 

‘Are you actually scared, Potter? I didn’t think you had it in you.’ 

‘I’m not afraid,’ Harry says. ‘It’s just impossible.’ 

Draco rolls the gobstone between his fingers. ‘You’re only saying so because no one’s done it before.’ 

‘Draco, what’s the first thing we learned in Temporal charms? A gobstone is too small to lance _that_ many runes onto it.’ 

Draco smirks. ‘Just because you lack the necessary magical skill--’ 

‘Oh, shut up, you wanker,’ Harry says. ‘I’m just saying the levels of spatial and temporal charms you’d have to lay in there, not to mention the fact that you have this utterly ridiculous goal in mind--’ 

Draco looks up. ‘It’s not ridiculous.’ 

‘Portkeys that far don’t exist for a reason.’ 

‘Yes,’ Draco says, turning the Gobstone over in his hand. ‘Because _I’ve_ never tried it.’ 

Harry laughs. ‘God you’re so arrogant. I almost want to help you just to see your face when it goes all to shit.’ 

Draco pulls out a piece of chalk from his desk and Harry pulls up a chair, turning it around and straddling it. 

‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘Let’s see you do it.’ 

Draco looks around absently for his wand. ‘Are you agreeing to test it with me?’ 

Harry shrugs. ‘What am I going to do, let you knock all the way to Argentina alone, and then deal with the Aurors myself when we don’t show up in Surrey on Monday?’ 

Draco scowls, pushing his books and paperwork aside and clearing a space to set the gobstone down. ‘Potter, this is going to work, okay? Do you think I’m going to fuck up the case I’ve been working on for months?’ 

He wipes the wood of his desk with his sleeve and begins tracing the complicated rune circles in chalk to lance the charms onto the gobstone he chose for his experimental Portkey. It’s been his secret project. Ever since he joined the Department of Magical Transportation and learned the limits to Portkey travel, Draco made it his mission to create not only the longest distance Portkey ever made, but at the same time, concentrating his spells into the smallest object possible. If only for the extra challenge it provided. 

‘You’re fucking that up, by the way,’ Harry says. 

Draco glances down at the rune he’s making -a fairly complicated set of charms instructions- and scoffs. ‘Rubbish. It’s perfect.’ 

Harry raises his eyebrow. ‘Draco, I’m telling you, that rune is going to set you off by about a million miles.’ 

Draco glances at the rune again. Of course, the fucker’s right. While Draco might be the brains behind the whole operation (he doubts Harry could ever have found the correct rune combination himself) no one is better at the actual physical magic than Harry is. 

Harry leans forward a little more over the back of his chair. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to--’ 

‘What, and let the golden boy take all the credit again? I hardly think so, Potter.’ 

He waves his wand and clears the chalk, starting the rune again from the beginning. It takes him about five minutes, what with Harry breathing down his neck, but he accurately copies the rune onto the table and sets the gobstone in the middle. He looks up at Harry, who’s leaning over Draco’s shoulder, looking down at the rune with a frown between his eyebrows. 

‘Draco—’ 

‘Shut up, Potter,’ Draco says pushing himself up off his chair and brandishing his wand. ‘It’s perfect.’

Harry frowns, biting his lower lip briefly before nodding and stepping away. 

Draco takes a deep breath and points his wand _. ‘Portus.’_

Immediately, the chalk runes glow bright gold, and they begin to shudder and twist. The table shakes and Harry wraps his fingers around Draco’s forearm. Draco looks down at Harry’s fingers, but Harry seems unaware that he’s even reached out. Draco’s startled out of his staring when the gobstone begins to rattle ominously on the table.

‘I think it’s going to pop,’ Harry says. 

‘No, just wait. It’ll take.’ 

Harry glances at him, green eyes wide, then he looks down at his hand on Draco’s forearm, flushes and swiftly lets him go. 

Draco looks away hastily and the table shudders again, but after a few more seconds, with the slight burning smell of several concentrated charms lancing into a solid object, the rune shudders, shrinks, and lifts, burning into the gobstone, leaving its imprint. The etchings burn red hot for a few seconds before the gobstone reclaims its shape, shrinks, and drops back on to the table with a thud. 

It shudders once, twice, and then it stills. 

For a few moments, the only sound in the room is that of their breathing, before Harry steps forward and snatches the gobstone from the table, then promptly drops it. 

‘Fuck, it’s still hot.’ 

With his heart still racing, Draco steps forward. He can’t believe he’s actually done it. ‘Of course it is, you idiot,’ he says. ‘That’s over fifty levels of temporal charms in there.’ 

‘Fuck me,’ Harry murmurs. ‘I can’t believe it.’ 

Draco gently picks the gobstone up from the table. It’s still warm. He closes his fingers around it, feeling as though he’s just caught the Snitch. 

‘This, Potter, is the first two-way, miniature sized, long distance Portkey ever made.’ 

Harry grins. ‘You did it.’ 

For a few seconds, they just stand there, grinning at each other, and then Draco shakes his head. ‘Ready to test it, then?’ 

‘All right.’ 

Draco licks his lips nervously, and Harry’s gaze flicks to his mouth. His pulse speeds up, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the look on Harry’s face or what they’re about to do. 

‘This is completely unsanctioned by the Ministry,’ Draco says. 

‘I know.’ 

‘We could both be sacked.’ 

Harry’s mouth twitches. ‘Just you, maybe.’ 

Draco sets the gobstone on the table. ‘It should be active in a few seconds.’ He looks up at Harry. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ 

‘Stop asking me that.’

The gobstone shudders on the table, and Draco immediately senses when the charms begin to activate, like the cogs of a machine slowly coming to life. 

Draco looks up at Harry. ‘Last chance to back out,’ he says. Harry just gives him an exasperated look. Draco takes a deep breath. ‘Okay, in 3-2-1’ 

They both reach for the gobstone at the same time, their fingertips touching its opposite sides. Draco gasps as the familiar hook behind his navel pulls him forward, only this time it feels like the hook is tugging on his spine and all the organs between. 

His robes flair, tangling with Harry’s, and Harry’s face is suddenly so close, close enough that his warm breath floats across Draco's cheeks, and Draco realises close up what all the fuss with Potter’s eyes is about. 

His feet leave the ground, and his shoulders knock against Harry’s as they jostle about, surrounded in a swirl of wind and colour. His finger is stuck onto the gobstone, like metal to a magnet, pulling him forward. 

It lasts an inordinate amount of time, and Draco’s heart begins to pound, wondering if he set the runes wrong --if perhaps he and Harry would be stuck forever in this whirling wind of temporal stasis and nothingness. Then his feet hit the ground hard, and both he and Harry fall over onto a cobblestoned street. 

He stands up in a daze, windswept and with a pounding headache. Someone is yelling to him in Spanish, and he looks around blearily. 

The sun is low in the sky and it’s humid as hell. All around him are tall, elaborately styled buildings, and the signs are all in Spanish. 

Harry grabs his forearm and pulls him up. Several people walk a wide berth around them, giving them odd looks, and occasionally pointing to Potter’s scar. 

‘Thank Merlin you keyed us to the Wizarding quarter,’ Harry says. ‘Can you imagine if we dropped in the middle of the Muggle word from a Portkey?’ 

Draco dusts his robes imperiously. ‘Well of course I did, Potter,’ he says. He gently pats himself down, making sure all his bits are in place. ‘Besides, what use would it be keying to the Muggle world?’ he asks, genuinely bemused.

Harry just rolls his eyes, and looks around. 

The street are filled with wandering witches and wizards eyeing them suspiciously. Draco waves his wand, applying a translation charm, and touches the person nearest him, an old man with a bushy handlebar moustache. 

‘Excuse me,’ he says, hoping the translation charm is in the right dialect, being not exactly sure where they’ve landed. ‘Where exactly are we?’ 

‘Well, you’re in the Wizarding Quarter, aren’t you?’ 

‘Yes, of course. But, er, what country… exactly?’ 

The man gives him an incredulous look. ‘Argentina, of course! Don’t you know Buenos Aires when you see it? Where did you key from, young man? I hope you know, unregistered Portkeys are against the rules. Probably one of those rich boys gallivanting across South America. You Brits think you can go anywhere you like.’ 

Draco bristles slightly. ‘We’re actually with the Ministry, sir.’ 

‘Oh. I suppose that means you own the place.’ 

Harry pushes himself between them. ‘It means we're here on Ministry business. Not to worry, we’ll soon be off.’ He looks over to Draco. 

‘Where’s the Portkey?’ 

Draco looks down at his palm, noting with dread the ring of ash stained into the pale skin there. The Portkey disintegrated. He looks up as Harry makes the same conclusion. 

‘Oops,’ Draco says quite eloquently. 

Harry’s eyes widen and he grabs Draco’s arm, stepping away from the old man, almost bowling over two young girls, who point at him and giggle behind their magazine. No doubt, Potters face was on the spread of Teen Witch, or whatever it was. 

Harry stops abruptly and turns to face him. ‘We’re fucked.’ 

‘Potter. It’s simple. We’ll just go to the Ministry, show them our badges, and then they’ll help us find a way back.’ 

Harry anxiously tugs on his hair, attempting to brush it over his scar, apparently noticing the way people are beginning to stare at him. It springs back up again with a hearty defiance. ‘Draco, look,’ he says, pointing to the last few rays of sunlight in the distance. ‘I’m betting all the Ministry offices are closed.’ 

‘Ok, we go to the Portkey terminus. There must be one around here.’ 

‘What, and take four Portkeys back? Draco, we’re supposed to be briefing a mission in 48hrs.’ 

Draco loosens the top two buttons of his robes, suddenly feeling very hot. He runs his hands through his hair, and looks around vaguely, at the various Wizarding shops, the bank. Several wizards and witches walk around them, watching them curiously as they have a very public panic attack in the middle of Buenos Aires. 

Well --maybe just Draco. 

‘I’m suddenly ill,’ Draco says vaguely and to no one in particular. 

‘Oh, don’t crack up. I’m sure we can find a Muggleborn with a mobile.’ 

‘A mobile? Oh no, oh please don’t tell me you’re going to call Granger.’ 

‘Of course I am, she’ll know how to get us out of this shithole.’ 

‘After she rubs it in my face, the vicious trollop.’ 

‘Watch it, Malfoy.’ 

‘And, of course she’ll be sure to tell Weasley,’ he goes on. 

‘Will you shut up about your ego?’ Harry says, stepping up on his toes and looking around, presumably for a wizard dressed like a Muggle, the way Halfbloods and Muggleborns tend to do. God forbid they put any sort of effort in learning proper wizard culture. 

‘Look there,’ he says, pointing. 

Draco hardly has a moment to look before Harry disappears from his side, crossing the cobblestoned street and immediately disappearing into sea of wizards and witches milling about, holding onto their shopping. 

‘Draco considers attempting to follow him, but then opts to stay put, assuming that Harry will eventually return. 

After a few minutes standing there alone and quite properly terrified, Draco vaguely considers Apparating, but in the midst of contemplating just how many jumps it would take to cross from Argentina to London, Harry reappears, a wide grin on his face. 

‘I got her,’ he says. ‘She gave me an address. Someone she knows in the Ministry here. He can get us a flight.’ 

Harry casts a complicated ‘Point-Me’ spell, designed to lead him to the address on the paper, a spell Draco knows he created on his own, and that Draco couldn’t cast even if he tried. Harry grabs his arm and they begin walking through the complicated alleyways hedged in by brick walls and screaming peddlers, and a vague sense of relief blooms in his heart, having Harry here with him. But then his brain catches up and he tugs on Harry’s arm. 

‘What do you mean, a flight?’ 

~~ 

Bruno Gutiérrez, the youngest head for the Magical transport division in Argentina, is actually quite fit. 

A fact he’s apparently aware of, since he insists on flaunting it brazenly, flirting with Harry as if he never even _heard_ the word propriety. He’s tall and lean, with sinuous muscles and sandy-brown hair and a ridiculous dimple in his chin. As they walk into Bruno’s flat, more Muggle than magical, (being a Muggleborn) he takes great pains to make sure they’re comfortable (Harry in particular), offering them drinks and getting them settled, showing them the bath, and pointing out the extra towels before settling in the living room, sitting across from Harry, and proceeding to speak to him as though Draco isn’t even in the room. Draco’s quite certain that Bruno doesn’t need to touch Harry’s shoulder quite so often, or lean in quite so close while showing Harry how to operate his mobile to call Granger. Harry, being as equally flustered as Draco is when dealing with Muggle devices, doesn’t seem to notice the absurd amount of attention being lavished upon him. 

Draco, feeling slightly ill, decides to take a turn about the room, stopping by the wall of windows facing the coast, with a spectacular view of the capital city. The last few gaps of purple sun are fading by the second, and Draco steps through the open sliding door onto the balcony, sipping on the glass of Firewhisky Bruno supplied him with. The wind picks up and Draco sets his glass on the ledge and wraps his arm around himself. 

He wonders if there’ll ever be a point in his life where his ambition will come second to common sense. He had to have layered the charms too thick. Or perhaps one of his runes was unstable. Didn’t Harry show some hesitation just before he lanced the gobstone? Why hadn’t he listened? For that matter, why hadn’t Harry been more insistent? He usually was. 

Harry never lets him get away with anything less than perfection. When Harry was transferred from the Auror programme to set up his task force on unregistered and unsanctioned Portkey travel, Draco was surprised he wasn’t sacked. Instead, Harry appointed Draco his co-head. Harry’s been tolerant of Draco’s need to experiment, even occasionally getting Draco out of a tight spot or two when he needed it. 

But this one was his baby, and Harry never did anything but support him through his research, and now Draco’s fucked them both over because of a stupid oversight. Draco sighs deeply, and when something flickers in his peripheral vision, he turns to find Harry silently studying him from in the doorway, his arms folded across his broad chest. 

‘You know,’ he says. ‘A gobstone as a Portkey is actually quite pointless.’ 

Draco sighs again, looking away and gripping the metal balcony with some agitation.

‘It wasn’t meant for commercial use, I was just--’ 

‘Testing yourself, I know.’ Harry moves closer beside him, close enough so that their shoulders touch. Draco glances at him, noting that Harry’s shed his outer robes and is dressed only in a crisp white shirt and cotton trousers. He’s sure Bruno had some part to play in it. The pervert.

Harry leans over the balcony, resting on his forearms and looking out to the coast. ‘You don’t have to prove yourself to me, Draco,’ he says without turning to face him. 

Draco tries to scoff. Just on the tip of his tongue is a snide remark, something to the effect of _‘Why on earth would I have to, Potter?’_ but Harry turns to him and traps him in an intense gaze, and Draco’s irritation crumbles. 

Of course, it’s true. He’s been trying his damnedest for the last six years to prove to everyone he’s not a complete shit and trying to drown the echo of his childhood arrogance and idiotic decisions with supposedly brilliant magical feats. 

‘Yeah, I know,” Draco says. ‘You should have told me the rune was fucked.’ 

‘I honestly thought it would take. I’m not suicidal, you know.’ 

Draco looks away again, and they stand in comfortable silence until Harry gently nudges his shoulder. 

‘Bruno can get us tickets and paperwork for a flight tomorrow morning. His secretary is working on it.’ 

Draco swallows. ‘A flight. I’m guessing not on a broom.’ 

Harry’s mouth twitches. ‘No. Not on a broom,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.’ 

Draco swallows his grumbling because, really, he got them into this mess. He’s about to ask Harry exactly what they’ll be flying on, when Bruno joins them on the balcony, still eyeing Harry as though he’d like nothing more than for Draco to disappear. 

‘We should go out,’ Bruno says, in heavily accented English. ‘You’re in Buenos Aires, you have to try the steak, and see the nightlife.’ 

‘Er… ’ Harry’s eyes flick to Draco and back. ‘I’m not sure. Isn’t our flight quite early?’ 

Bruno waves his hand about in an elaborate gesture. ‘We’re young, come on. You can sleep on the plane.’

Bruno smiles hopefully, and Harry looks over to Draco and shrugs. ‘What do you think?’ 

Draco shrugs in return, and Bruno’s face lights up. 

‘Perfect’ he says, beaming. He nods to Draco ‘I’d change those robes if were you,’ he says. ‘They’re pretty old fashioned in Buenos Aires. Most people might wear them to work but definitely not out in the bar on a Friday night.’ 

Draco fumes. ‘In England, respectable Wizards wear robes,’ he says tersely. 

‘If you’re over fifty, maybe,’ Bruno counters. 

Harry smirks at Draco’s indignant expression, and Draco rolls his eyes, slipping past them both and heading to the hallway bath. He shrugs out of his robes, grateful he decided to wear a jumper and trousers beneath. He absently fusses with his hair and studies his reflection in the mirror. 

If he were to compare himself to Bruno, which he won’t, Draco reckons he could come in a close second. He doesn’t have a fucking dimple in his chin, but he does have brilliant hair, and all the women he’s fucked tell him his body is decent. Bruno can flirt with Harry as much as he wants, it doesn’t bother Draco. Harry’s a grown man, and it’s not like everyone doesn’t already know he’s gay. He doesn’t try to hide it. But it’s simply in bad taste to sleep with a Ministry head on the job. Not to mention Bruno’s obvious intent to shag Harry and quickly send him on his way, like a slag.

Draco splashes some cold water on his face and brushes his hair off his forehead. It’s not as if he’s _jealous_ or anything. He can’t stand Harry on most days, and while he’s okay with the whole _gay_ thing, it’s not something he ever wanted to try. Well mostly. Well --certainly not with Harry, anyway. 

Draco quietly steps back into the living room, unnoticed by Bruno and Harry, who are still standing on the balcony, looking out into the night sky. Bruno slides closer to Harry, and Draco observes them both with a tight sensation in his chest. They’re both broad shouldered and tall, but neither of them come up to Draco’s six foot four. Bruno’s sandy brown hair falls in graceful curls on his neck, while Harry’s stands up in dangerous spikes. Draco clears his throat and they both look back.

At first, Bruno looks disappointed with having his moment with Harry interrupted, but then he looks at Draco and laughs. ‘Oh dear,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid you won’t catch anyone’s eye wearing that,’ he says. Harry glares at him briefly and, inexplicably, that brief look lifts Draco’s spirits. 

He rolls his eyes. ‘It’s just clothes, Bruno,’ he says. He glances at Harry, and says, ‘Besides, I’m not looking to catch anyone’s eye.’ 

Bruno’s mouth turns down at the corners. ‘Girlfriend at home?’ 

Harry’s gaze flicks away from his, and Draco shrugs, turning his gaze back to Bruno.

‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asks. 

‘Back to the Wizardry Quarter. In San Telmo, there is a restaurant that serves the best steak. And then there are a few tapas bars. You English boys will love it.’ He thumps Draco in the back and walks past him. 

Harry walks over to him, hands stuffed in his pockets. ‘He’s going to call a driver,’ he says. ‘They treat Ministry heads a lot better out here, I have to say.’ 

Draco, still feeling a bit put out, doesn’t say anything. Instead, he contemplates if he should, perhaps, charm his jumper to be a little bit tighter. 

Harry rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t listen to him, Draco,’ he says. ‘You look good.’ 

Harry’s cheeks turn a little red and Draco feels inexplicably pleased. 

Argentinian steak turns out to be one of the best things he’s ever tasted --not that he’d ever admit it. Bruno took them to a Muggle restaurant called the Moliere Café before dragging them back to the Wizarding district to a dark, dank tapas bar filled with rowdy wizards. 

The music is obnoxiously loud and they have to yell their orders to the disgruntled bartender. Draco orders a double-shot of Firewhisky just to dull the inexplicable ache in his gut anytime he glances over to Harry and Bruno sitting opposite him. Bruno keeps leaning into Harry, whispering in his ear, touching his hand, occasionally brushing Harry’s hair off his forehead. Harry himself is red-faced and slightly pissed, and leaning into Bruno a bit too often to be strictly accidental. 

Draco scowls, sipping his drink and wondering why the fuck he’s even here. 

‘You think he notices?’ he overhears Bruno say into Harry’s ear. Harry’s gaze flicks up to Draco and then he looks away, shrugging and looking a little uncomfortable. Bruno leans across the table, a smirk on his face, and yells, ‘You realize this is a gay bar, don’t you, Draco?’ 

Draco’s face heats and he looks around the darkened room. He did, in fact, notice there were no women around, but he didn’t pay it much mind. He was too occupied with trying his best not to punch Bruno in the face and trying to stifle his confusing anger. 

Bruno laughs, nudging Harry’s shoulder gently. ‘See, Harry. I told you he wouldn’t even notice.’ 

Draco scowls. ‘So this was some kind of joke?’ he asks tersely. Harry doesn’t meet Draco’s gaze over his glass of Scotch, and Bruno waves his arm about. ‘Oh don’t be sensitive!’ Bruno drapes his arm across Harry’s shoulders and starts twisting the ends of Harry’s hair in his fingers. ‘I just wanted Harry to have fun.’ 

Draco’s stomach burns. ‘You know,’ he says. ‘I think I’m just going to Apparate to the flat if that’s ok with you, Bruno.’ Harry sits up straighter, but Bruno looks absolutely delighted.

Harry sets his drink down. ‘Draco, don’t--’ 

Draco cuts him off. ‘Oh, no it’s no problem. I’m just in the way here.’ Harry gives him a look, and Draco pushes back his chair and stands. “Don’t be too late, Potter,’ he says airily. ‘Don’t forget we leave in the morning.’ 

Draco gives Bruno one last pointed glare, strides out of the crowded bar into the hot, humid street, and Disapparates to Bruno’s flat. In a huff, he heads straight to the bathroom, angrily yanks his clothes off, and jumps into the shower. He turns the water as hot as he can get it, pressing his palms flat against the tiles and letting the water sluice down his neck and chest. 

Let Harry suck the dodgy fucker off in some sweat infested bar, what the fuck does he care? Draco ducks his head under the water, closing his eyes, and thinking about just that. Harry on his knees, sucking cock, but instead of Bruno’s bite-sized bits, he pictures his own, hard and slick, enveloped in Harry’s thick, pink lips. He turns the image over in his mind, confused by his obvious not-revulsion. He’s never been with a man. He loves cunt just as much as any straight wizard he’s ever met. If he thinks of anyone but Harry that way, Blaise or Nott perhaps, the idea isn’t half as appealing. But with Harry… 

Harry would probably laugh his head off if he ever admitted it. Draco grabs the soap, -a cheap cleansing potion- and starts rubbing it on his skin. Inevitably, his mind wanders back to Harry and Bruno and what they must be doing right now. He puts the potion back on the shelf with unnecessary force, and then freezes when he hears two distinct pops of Apparition, and low voices signalling Bruno and Harry’s return. 

There’s a quiet laugh, a thud, and Draco closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the tile. Is he actually going to have to listen to Harry and Bruno fuck in the other room? 

He remains very still for a moment, listening, and then the door to the bathroom rattles and Draco’s heart speeds up. The door opens and closes, and Draco remains unnaturally still, listening as the faucet opens and closes, and there’s a low sigh. 

‘Draco?’ 

Of course, it’s Harry. 

Draco stiffens, but he doesn’t say anything. 

‘Look, Draco. I’m sorry if you felt uncomfortable. I really didn’t think it was going to bother you so much.’ 

Draco pokes his head out of the shower, holding the curtain back so he can glare at Harry properly. ‘You think _that’s_ why I left? I’m not… you being gay doesn’t… you’re such a fucking idiot, Potter!’ 

Harry watches him wide-eyed, cheeks slightly flushed. ‘Well, why did you leave?’ 

Draco yanks the curtain closed and switches off the shower. ‘Hand me a towel, you prat,’ he grunts. 

Harry tosses one over the rack, and Draco angrily dries his skin with stiff, jerky movements. ‘If you think I was just going to sit there and watch you… fondle that _disgusting leech_ of a man….’ Harry pulls back the curtain just as Draco secures the towel around his waist. 

And Draco jumps in surprise. ‘Merlin, Harry!’ 

Harry ignores his outburst and simply stares at him. ‘Draco,’ he says. ‘What are you getting at?’ 

‘I’m not...’ Draco sighs. ‘It’s just, you don’t even know him and you’re thinking about fucking him.’ 

‘What business is it of yours who I fuck?’ 

Draco steps out of the shower and Harry has to step back a few paces to give him room in the small space. Draco grabs another small towel, and slings it across his shoulders. Harry’s gaze drops to Draco’s chest, and then he hastily looks away. 

“It’s not my fucking business,’ Draco says in a low voice. ‘What you do with your cock is your own affair. But I’m not going to sit around to watch. Have you even thought about what this could mean for your career? You’re fraternizing with the head of a foreign department.’ 

‘I haven’t done anything with him.’ 

Draco pushes aside the instant relief that blooms in his chest. ‘Well,’ he says weakly. ‘It’s perfectly clear that he wants you to.’ 

Draco turns away from Harry and starts drying his hair with the towel around his neck before giving it up and digging into his discarded trouser pockets for his wand. He spends a few seconds artfully drying his hair the way he likes, trying his best not to waver under the heat of Harry’s gaze. It’s unnerving having Harry with him inside the small, humid bath, his gaze burning a hole into his back, the silence heavy with tension and heat. 

He catches Harry’s gaze in the mirror. The expression on his face is almost impossible to read and Draco’s heart begins to race. He raises his eyebrow, still studying Harry’s reflection in the mirror. ‘What?’ Draco asks softly. 

Harry licks his lips. ‘Draco… are you jealous?’ 

Draco’s stomach drops slightly, as though he’s taken a sudden dip on his broom. He turns around swiftly and scoffs. ‘You’re way off target, Potter.’ 

Harry steps closer. ‘Are you certain?’ 

‘What are you doing?’ Draco murmurs, stepping backward. His arse bumps painfully against the hard, porcelain sink. 

‘Well, I’m not sure,’ Harry says. ‘See, I’m a little bit drunk.’ 

He lurches forward and presses his lips against Draco’s, who grunts in surprise. Harry cups his cheek, and Draco remains very still, and then he closes his eyes. Harry’s mouth is warm, his lips soft and thick and Draco doesn’t step away. It’s not anything like kissing a woman. The soft stubble on Harry’s cheek is a constant reminder that Draco is, in fact, kissing a man. He wants to trap Harry’s lower lip between his teeth and he wants to touch the skin beneath Harry’s clothes, but he doesn’t do either of these things. He just lets Harry kiss him and tries not give in to the well of fear opening a pit in his stomach. His heart is beating so fast, he’s almost afraid he might pass out. 

Harry makes a small noise and moves in closer, pressing their hips together and pushing his knee between Draco’s legs, his thigh brushing against Draco’s naked cock. Draco gasps softly and Harry takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, snaking his tongue between Draco’s lips, exploring his mouth with slow, languid strokes. Draco’s never been kissed like this before. It feels as though his whole body is on fire. 

Harry scrapes his fingernails against Draco’s scalp, and Draco almost whimpers. He never knew such a thing could feel so fucking good. Harry nips Draco’s lower lip and groans, shifting his hips. When Draco feels the first hint of Harry’s erection, the hard bulge pressing insistently into Draco’s thigh, he pushes Harry away hard enough so that he stumbles, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

‘What the fuck was that, Potter?’ he says breathlessly. 

Harry stares at him and then he frowns. ‘I thought—’

‘Well, you thought wrong. What, you think I’m jealous, so you decide to give me a pity fuck?’ 

‘What? Draco, that’s not even—’ 

‘Fuck off, Potter. I’m not interested. Get the fuck out of here before I hex you.’ 

Harry steps in closer to him. ‘You’re being a complete prick.’ 

‘And you’re being thick. As usual. This isn’t about me being jealous, so don’t flatter yourself. This is me rejecting you. _This is a rejection._ Why don’t you go suck Bruno’s cock instead? I don’t give a shit.’ 

Harry watches him silently before reaching for the door. The hardest part is, he doesn’t say a word as he leaves, he only gives Draco a long, measured look, and then slips out the door. 

~ 

Nobody sleeps. Draco’s smoking or few stolen fags on the balcony when their paperwork comes in at five in the morning. Harry silently hands Draco his passport and ticket, and Draco sucks deeply on his cigarette, absently studying the still photograph of him inside the small booklet. Harry gently pulls the cigarette from his lips and stubs it out on the balcony. ‘You said you were going to quit,’ he says quietly, before walking back inside and closing the door behind him. Draco turns away, watching the dusky sky and aching for another fag. 

~

Draco quickly decides that airports are a nightmare. 

Harry drags him over to a counter marked _British Airways_ to ‘check in’ (they each transfigured small bags into suitcases, so as to not look suspicious) and Draco’s brain is buzzing with information overload. On their way over in Bruno’s car, Draco caught his first glimpse of a plane and promptly fell ill. 

Harry hasn’t said a word about what happened between them, and Draco’s more than grateful for that. He’d prefer if they just pretended it never happened. 

At the desk, the Muggle asks them for their tickets and passports, and Draco hands her everything in his case, upside down of course. The woman smiles indulgently at him, so he quickly avoids making eye contact. 

‘Okay, Mr… Draco Malfoy..?’ she says his name slowly and then her mouth twitches, as if holding back a laugh. 

Draco gives her a scathing look. 

Harry nudges him with his elbow. ‘Forgive him,’ he says, giving the woman a charming smile. ‘It’s a family name, and he’s sensitive about it.’ 

The woman redirects all her charm to Harry for the rest of their conversation. 

After they check in, Harry takes him to the concourse with strange little shops, where Bruno is waiting for them, cup of coffee in hand. 

‘Everything was okay?’ he asks. 

‘It was brilliant,’ Harry says. ‘Thanks so much for helping us, Bruno. We owe you.’ 

Bruno smiles, and glances at Draco. ‘Ready for your first plane ride?’ 

Draco scowls and looks away. 

Bruno takes the rebuff with a wry smile and pats Harry on the shoulder. ‘I should go. You have a flight to catch.’

Bruno gives Harry such a covetous look that Draco barely holds himself back from using his wand to put his beady eyes back into their sockets. Bruno pulls Harry into a tight hug -too tight, if Draco is any judge- and pats him on the back. 

‘If ever you return to Buenos Aires, you know where to find me, yes?’ 

Harry blushes and nods, and Draco rolls his eyes. ‘We have to go, Harry.’ 

Draco nods tersely at Bruno, allowing him a brief handshake before leading Harry away by his arm. He has no idea where he is going, or what they’re supposed to be doing, but only when he looks back and sees Bruno’s gone does he release his hold on Harry. 

Harry lifts his eyebrow. ‘Have you quite finished?’ he says, straightening his shirt. ‘You’re not very attractive when you’re jealous, just so you know,’ he continues. ‘It’s actually one of your least appealing qualities. You turn into a giant prick.’ 

Draco sighs. ‘I’m not jealous, Harry,’ he says. He looks around at the shops. ‘I’d just really like some tea. That’ll make everything so much better.’ 

For some reason, this puts a small smile on Harry’s face. ‘We don’t have time for tea, Draco.’ He points ahead. ‘We have to go there, and they’re going to search you. Quite thoroughly, actually.’ 

‘Oh my God. What? Why?’ Draco says indignantly. 

‘Well, sometimes people try to bring weapons onto planes.’ He quickly switches tacks at the look of horror on Draco’s face. ‘It’s a long story. Just make sure the concealment charm on your wand is still active and follow me.’ 

They move through security quite slowly. The lines are long and the Muggles move like lava. Draco’s main irritation comes from the fact that he has to remove his shoes, which he grumbles about for five whole minutes behind Harry’s head in the line, until Harry turns and says, ‘Don’t be such a baby, Malfoy.’ 

By the time it’s over, they have no choice but to run through the terminal to get to the gate with their flight. Seeing the plane close-up through the glass windows does nothing for Draco’s nerves, so it is in absolute, heart-racing terror that he follows Harry onto the tarmac and into the plane. 

Harry lets Draco go first, gently guiding him to the aisle in the middle of the plane and nudging him towards the window seat. Draco sits heavily, looking out the window and trying to calm his breaths. His gaze lands on a huge metal circle with silver blades, glinting with sunlight and pure evil, when Harry gently touches his shoulder. 

‘I was surprised you didn’t say anything when we walked past first class,’ he says, lifting his eyebrows. 

‘What’s that?’ 

‘You know, all the bigger seats in front with all the space?’ Harry raises his eyebrows, almost as if he hopes Draco will return to his usual self and make a ruckus, but Draco shrugs and looks back out the window, eyeing the long wings with extreme trepidation.

‘It’s really not so bad, Draco.’ 

Draco turns to face him. ‘Have you flown, then?’ 

Harry nods. ‘Once. I went to Australia with Hermione and Ron. Ron was a lot worse than you are now.’ 

Draco’s heart lifts a bit at the confirmation that he has more balls than Weasley. Not that he needed any. 

‘You know, I’m not certain everyone on this plane is _actually_ British,’ he says softly, looking around at the other passengers. ‘What a scam.’ 

Harry lets out a startled laugh. ‘I’m seriously not sure how to address your inflated sense of nationalism, Draco.’ 

‘Don’t try to speak as though if you’re the intelligent one, Potter.’ 

‘Right now, Draco. I am. Put on your seatbelt.’ 

Draco fiddles with the belt across his lap. ‘Do I actually have to? It seems rather pointless.’ 

Harry leans over him and hooks the buckle, and Draco tries to pretend it doesn’t make him feel incredibly heated. ‘It’s the law, Draco.’ 

Draco collects himself and says, ‘Yeah. A Muggle law. Who cares about them?’ 

‘Jesus Christ, you are such a complete prat.’ 

‘Yeah? If I’m such a prat, then why did you kiss me?’ 

‘You want to do this now? On a plane? 

‘Why not? We’re stuck here for days. Completely inefficient method of travel, if you ask me.’ 

‘What, like your Portkey?’ 

Draco elbows him hard. ‘I just have to work out the kinks, Potter. That’s all.’ 

‘The flight doesn’t take days, Draco.’ 

‘It almost does.’ 

A loud voice starts to sound off in the air, and Draco panics slightly, looking around. 

‘Draco, it’s fine. They just do this to let you know we’re going to be taking off.’

‘How do they do these things without magic?’ Draco asks, outraged. ‘They shouldn’t be able to. It’s… not right.’ 

‘You do realise everyone can hear you, don’t you?’ 

‘No they can’t,’ Draco says. ‘I cast that charm you showed me.’ 

The plane suddenly begins to move and Draco grips his arm rests. He looks out the window, staring as the plane slowly moves down the runway. 

‘This isn’t so bad,’ he says absently. 

‘Why did you freak out when I kissed you?’ Harry asks, briefly touching Draco’s hand. 

Draco doesn’t look at him. ‘I didn’t freak out,’ he says. ‘I’m just… not interested in you that way.’ 

The plane speeds up and Draco digs his nails into the padding of his armrest, and Harry takes his hand. 

‘That’s bollocks, Draco,’ he says, rubbing soothing circles into the back of his palm.

‘Harry—’ 

‘It’s fine, Draco.’ 

‘Harry. I don’t think I can do this.’ 

The tail of the plane dips, and Draco almost jumps out of his seat. He fiddles with the seatbelt frantically, hurting his fingers as he tries again and again to unbuckle himself.

He only vaguely notices the misdirection charms Harry casts on the passengers of the plane, and Harry leans over him and gently lets him free, grabbing his hand and holding him still. 

The plane levels out, but this doesn’t reduce any of Draco’s panic, because he’s pretty certain the plan is beginning to freefall or something. 

‘Draco, look at me.’

The windows rattle, and the plane bumps, as if going over a huge boulder in the sky, except Draco knows there’s no such thing.

‘What is that?’ he says, looking out the window.

Harry gently touches his cheek and turns Draco’s face away from the window. ‘Don’t look out there. Look at me.’

Draco does, blinking rapidly and clenching Harry’s hand. 

Harry pushes the armrest between them out of the way and kisses Draco softly, but Draco pulls away. 

‘What are you doing?’ 

‘Distracting you.’ 

Harry leans in again and kisses him more insistently, pushing Draco back so that the back of his head thumps against the panel behind him. 

Draco pulls away again. ‘Did you hear that? What is this thing made of? It seems so thin. It’s going to fall apart.’ 

Harry presses soft kisses around Draco’s mouth, and Draco relaxes a little and hesitantly pushes his fingers through Harry’s hair, holding his head in place. 

‘How does this machine work?’

Harry kisses behind Draco’s ear. ‘I’m not sure.’ 

Draco grips Harry’s hair a little more tightly. ‘You’re not sure? How can you trust something if you don’t even know how it works?’ 

Harry lifts his head. ‘Do you know how magic works?’ 

‘I have a vague understanding.’ 

‘Same with this plane. I know it goes up in the air. It makes noise. It moves forward.’ 

‘But how does it _stay_ up?’ 

‘Draco…’ 

‘I have to know-- _umph_.’ 

Harry kisses him again, and Draco grips the back of his head firmly, deciding that he might like this method of distraction after all. 

Harry slips his hand over Draco’s shirt, briefly brushing over his nipples, and Draco groans. 

‘Are you sure the Muggles can’t see us?’ 

‘I was an Auror, Draco. I know how to cast a misdirection charm.’ 

Draco pushes Harry’s shirt with on hand, running his hands up the length of Harry’s spine, enjoying the way Harry shudders. 

Harry cups Draco’s erection in his trousers and Draco starts, hitting his head against the panel again. 

‘Harry, what are you doing?’ 

Harry deftly unzips Draco’s trousers and runs the tip of his fingernail over the cloth covering the bulge of Draco’s erection. 

‘I think it’s fairly obvious, Draco.’ 

‘You can’t—’

But apparently, Harry can. He pulls Draco’s already leaking cock out, and begins to gently stroke, and Draco goes completely languid, dropping his head back and biting his lower lip. 

Harry knows exactly what to do. He’s not soft or hesitant, like most of the women Draco’s been with, but he’s not overly rough either. Harry rubs his thumb over the sensitive head, teasing the slit, slowly driving Draco crazy before stroking the length of Draco’s prick. 

‘Fuck, Harry.’ 

He turns his head to the side. There’s a woman in a seat across from them, idly sticking some sort of device in in her ears, completely unaware that the Boy-Who-Lived is stroking Draco Malfoy’s cock in an airplane. 

‘Harry, I’m gonna come.’ 

‘Look at me.’ 

Draco does, and Harry looks at him with such open longing that he really does come, hard, arching his back until he’s utterly spent. He closes his eyes, breathing heavily as Harry cleans them both up. 

He awkwardly shifts back into a sitting position, glancing out the window and looking down at the ocean. What the fuck was that? Being with Harry was like being drunk. 

‘See,’ Harry says. ‘You forgot all about being on a plane.’ 

Draco turns to Harry, as he leans over and re-buckles Draco’s seatbelt. 

‘Harry-’ 

Harry removes the misdirection charms. ‘Don’t turn into a prick again, Draco.’ 

‘I’m not.’ 

‘Yes, you are. I can see it in your eyes.’ 

‘Please, Harry,’ Draco says, looking away and resting his head against the panel. ‘Let’s just not talk about it.’ 

‘Sure,’ Harry says. ‘I just don’t understand why you react this way every time I touch you. Why you’re running away.’ 

‘I’m not running away,’ Draco murmurs, closing his eyes. 

‘Only because we’re stuck here for hours, Draco. If we were anywhere else, you would have Apparated by now.’ 

Draco looks out the window, staring at the clouds until his eyes burn. Harry tosses something into his lap. 

‘What’s this?’ 

‘A sleeping draught. Bruno got it.’ 

‘Huh.’ 

‘He’s not a complete prick, you know.’ 

Draco uncaps the glass bottle and sniffs it carefully before drinking the whole vial. 

‘Harry,’ he says. 

‘What?’ 

‘Don’t talk about Bruno, okay?’ 

Harry doesn’t say anything, and Draco promptly falls asleep. 

~ 

It’s easy enough to go their separate ways once they leave customs at Heathrow. They both head straight to the men’s loo, Harry continuously glancing at him along the way, and Draco resiliently ignoring him. In the bathroom, Harry stops him with a hand on his arm, obviously deliberating over some sort of speech, but Draco cuts him off before he can really get into it. 

‘I’m tired as fuck, Harry,’ he says. ‘I just want to go home.’ 

Draco doesn’t give him a chance to respond, he just Apparates the fuck out of there, and spends the rest of the day contemplating just how fucked up he is, and why it’s for the best. He doesn’t really deserve Harry anyway.

Monday finally brings the resolution to the case he’s been working on for months. The very first field assignment he’s ever been given –an unregistered Portkey case that took them months to piece together. It was a fairly large operation: wizards were using unregistered Portkeys to transport illegal goods, mostly hallucinogenic potions that they liked to sell to teenagers. 

Whoever makes the Portkeys is bloody brilliant, weaving concealment and misdirection charms into the runes that lance the Portkeys. Even when Draco lifted the runes from the Portkeys they managed to get a hold of, the lance-print always misled them. Until Draco decoded the concealment runes and separated it, using the charms themselves to pull a wand signature, and from that, the smallest trace of the wizard’s personal signature.

It was Harry who gave him that idea. Harry who stayed up with him for nights on end in the lab, pulling the charms apart with delicate, precise wandwork that still leaves Draco in awe. 

Draco heads down to the briefing room on level two and stands across the room from Harry, who doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. Weasley says something in his ear, and Harry’s gaze flicks to him, and then swiftly away. Harry looks tired. He has dark circles under his eyes and he holds himself taught, arms folded across his chest.

Draco pretends to pay attention, but he’s distracted by Harry’s complete lack of acknowledgement. 

After the illegal substances task force finishes their briefing, the head of the Auror department, a brute named Robards, takes over the briefing. 

‘First, let’s thank Potter and his department for cracking the case,’ he says. ‘We wouldn’t be making this raid without them.’ 

Draco rolls his eyes at the scattered applause, and Weasley thumps Harry hard on the back. 

‘We’re going in hard,’ Robards continues, ‘so I want everyone on their toes. These Wizards are _not_ to be trifled with. They almost took down a few of my men last week. McKinnon is still in St. Mungo’s. I need you to really listen out there, and stick together.’ 

Harry’s gaze slides over Draco. ‘Sir, are you certain we need Malfoy there? He has no Auror training, and if it’s dangerous, he could be a liability.’ 

Draco immediately steps forward. ‘This is _my_ case, Potter. You’re not going to kick me off this team.’ 

Harry doesn’t meet his eyes, choosing instead to address Robards again. ‘It’s not necessary for him to be there,’ he says as if Draco isn’t standing two feet away from him. ‘I can check the Portkeys myself and validate the magical signature. Then you have your arrest.’ 

‘ _You gloryhounding little shit_ ,’ Draco spits out. ‘Without me, you would have never even fucking known where to find these bastards.’ 

Robards holds up a hand and steps between them. 

Draco attempts to calm himself down by focusing on the wall behind Robards’ head. ‘Sir, you can’t take me off this case now. Not when I’ve work so hard on it. Please.’ 

Robards gives him a dismissive look. ‘If Potter can do the job, I see no reason for you to be there, Malfoy. Potter’s right. Your field training could use some work.’ 

Anger -real, searing, anger - flares in his chest, and he gives Robards such a look of deep loathing that the man shifts uncomfortably. 

‘Come now, Malfoy,’ he says. ‘Surely you don’t _want_ to be in danger.’ 

Draco’s utter frustration almost chokes him, and for one brief, horrifying moment, he thinks he might cry. Harry won’t even look at him, choosing instead to share guiltily at his boots. 

‘Very well,’ Draco says. ‘If you have no use for me. I’ll leave.’ 

Robards nods. ‘Brilliant,’ he says. ‘I’m sure your department needs you more than we do.’ 

Rather than pointing out the unfairness of the statement – _it’s Potter’s fucking department too-_ Draco turns on his heel and leaves. 

He moves quickly, keeping his head down and walking until he’s almost to the lift. 

The ridiculous part is, he _does_ want to cry. He’s been working on this case for _six months_. It’s _his_. He had it. And Potter just comes along and fucks it all up. Like he does everything. 

Draco punches the button for the lift. 

Repeatedly. 

Then he hears Potter’s voice. 

‘Draco, wait.’ 

Draco’s entire body tenses. He doesn’t look back. ‘Fuck you, Potter.’

Potter steps beside him. ‘Draco, come on. You know I’m right. There’s no reason for you to be there. You’re not trained for the field. I know how to disseminate the charms on my own.’ 

Draco still doesn’t look at him. The lift opens and Draco steps inside, pressing the button for the sixth floor. Harry follows him in. 

‘Draco, just look at me, would you?’ 

Draco stares resolutely ahead. ‘I always knew you would do this, Potter. That’s what this has been about all along, hasn’t it? You’ve just been looking for a way to knock me down a peg or two. Well, just brilliant. I know my place now, don’t I? Let’s just keep the pet Death Eater occupied on the sixth floor, shall we?’ 

Harry lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘Draco, this isn’t about any of that.’ 

‘Well, what the fuck is it about?’ 

The lift jerks and the doors open. Draco strides swiftly out, passing all the cubicles and heading for the dark, dingy lab where his office is hidden. Harry follows him stride for stride, but when they’re alone, he grabs Draco’s arm and turns him around roughly. 

‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Just _maybe_ , I actually care about you and don’t want you to get hurt, Draco.’ 

‘Give me a fucking break, Harry. I can take care of myself. I’m not completely useless.’ 

‘I don’t think you’re useless!’ 

‘Then why would you… humiliate me like that, in front of everyone?’ 

‘I didn’t mean to do that,’ Harry says, looking remorseful. ‘It’s just. I’ve been on raids like this before. I know what they’re like. I don’t want you out there.’ 

Draco sighs and his shoulders slump. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Go be the fucking hero, Harry.’ 

He crosses the room to his office, and quietly shuts the door. 

~ 

When the team doesn’t return at their designated time, Draco tells himself that the unsteady feeling in his chest is just worry about his case. But when all the cubicles on the six floor empty out and he alone is left, he briefly acknowledge his unease. He stuffs it down, trying to think about anything but Harry in danger, and then he Disapparates home. 

His flat is dark and cold, and he absently casts a warming charm after he spells on all the lights. He pulls off his robe and drapes it over his sofa as he walks straight into the kitchen to pour himself a Scotch. He lights up a fag, and one Scotch quickly turns into two, and then three. 

Where the fuck is the news from the Auror department? He subscribed to owl updates on the case, and it’s after one in the morning. The Aurors left the Ministry just after four. 

He loosens his top button and rolls up his sleeves, contemplating a bit more Scotch, when his Floo roars to life. 

‘It’s Harry, can I come through?’ 

Draco almost sags with relief. He swallows a few times before he strides over to his fireplace. ‘Yes, come on. I’ve been waiting for ages.’ 

The Scotch has loosened his tongue, but he doesn’t care, because when Harry steps through his Floo, robes singed and a mean looking gash on his cheek, all his words and admonitions die in his throat. 

‘What the fuck happened?’ 

‘We got them!’ Harry says, his eyes alight. ‘The magical signature you got matched one of the Wizards at the raid, so, it’s a definite conviction. The others… well, it’ll be harder to pin them with charges, but Hermione says she’s going to hit them with everything she’s got.’ 

Draco takes this all in a bit wide-eyed, his mouth slightly agape. ‘Harry, I was talking about you.’ Draco points to the sofa. ‘Sit down before you fall over.’ 

Harry waves this away. ‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to tell you straightaway since you couldn’t be there.’ 

‘Thanks to you.’ 

‘Draco, look.’ Harry runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I know you prefer to pretend that what happened didn’t happen, but it did, and it meant something to me. Sometimes when you look at me, like you’re looking at me right now, I feel like it meant something to you, too.’ 

Draco swallows, but doesn’t respond. 

Harry’s eyes flick to the kitchen behind him, and back. ‘And by that empty glass of Scotch -your third or fourth by the look in your eyes- I know you were worried about me, because you only drink that much when you’re really worried or trying to forget about something.’ 

Draco huffs, but doesn’t reply, even though he knows a simple declaration of denial could put Harry off course. If he needles Harry just a little, the way he usually does, he could stop him from making any sort of declaration, but for once, Draco keeps his mouth shut. 

‘I know you, Draco. I wish you’d stop forgetting that.’ 

‘I don’t know if that’s really true, Harry.’ 

‘How about this --you know I didn’t keep you off the field today because I wanted to steal your glory. You knew it was because I care about you so much that if we were in the field together, I’d be distracted as hell trying to protect you, and that scares the shit out of you.’ 

Harry steps forward and waits expectantly. 

Draco shrugs. ‘Maybe,’ he says. 

‘You don’t need to be afraid of me, Draco.’ 

It’s not the actual words, but the way he says them. In the softest voice Draco’s ever heard him use, and his green eyes bright and earnest, his gaze so intense that it leaves Draco bare. 

Harry can see through him, through every wall and everything he’s ever tried to hide himself in.

Yes. He’s scared. He’s terrified. Because once someone sees him like that, they see everything. Even the parts he hates. The parts of himself that make him wonder how Harry could not hate him too. 

‘I don’t know how to not be afraid of you, Harry.’ 

‘I promise I won’t hurt you.’ 

Draco’s laugh is suspiciously moist. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’ 

Harry closes the space between them. ‘Draco,’ he says, his lips only a hair’s breadth away. _‘Trust me.’_

Draco closes his eyes as Harry’s lips gently touch his, and for once, he doesn’t fight it at all.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Recipient: digthewriter  
> Title: What's New, Buenos Aires?  
> Trope: Denial  
> Author: kedavranox  
> Beta: marianna_merlo  
> Pairing(s): Draco/Harry  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Word Count: ~ 9,300  
> Warnings/Content (Highlight to view): *none* Public sex  
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
> Author’s Note: digthewriter I hope you enjoy it! Thanks to my beta! ♥ bb!


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